Peeking Into Corners

I'm not sure when I first noticed that it was happening, but I suspect it was back when that $3 theater on the West Side was still around. Morgan and I used to go there a lot.

As my field of vision began to shrink, I found that the only way I could watch a movie in a traditional movie theater was to scan my eyes back and forth across the screen constantly, in an effort to take in as many details as possible. We'd be sitting there watching some second-run feature on a Sunday afternoon, and my eyes would be scanning back and forth, up and down, as the action played itself out.

After, say, 30 or 45 minutes, my eyes would tire out and settle onto the lower left-hand corner of the screen. That's where they would stay for the rest of the movie.

I didn't know that this was happening, I wasn't aware that my eyes had stopped moving, and were now focusing on a single spot only a few inches in diameter. In my brain (which can be a devious trickster sometimes)? I was convinced that I was seeing the whole screen. If I were to stop and think about it, of course I would remember that my field of vision is about the size of a grape. But when I'm in movie-watching mode, that never comes up. According to my brain, my field of vision contains the entire screen and I'm not missing a thing.

I began to suspect that something might be wrong when the reactions of the audience around me started becoming more confusing. "What's so damn funny about that coffee cup?" I'd wonder. Or "Why is that table leg so scary?" Was there something hidden behind them? Was some significance placed on these items in an earlier scene?

Only when I asked Morgan (either then or later) would I learn that the coffee cup didn't mean a goddamn thing-people were reacting to what was on the other 98 percent of the screen.

This began happening every single time, and that's one of the main reasons-much to my regret-I've pretty much been forced to give up on the whole "theater-going experience." (Well, that and other people in the theater. They always bug me.)

This started several years ago, but only in recent weeks have I noticed the same thing happening at home when I try to watch the television. TV used to be my savior (at least movie-wise) after theaters became a losing battle. The screen was small enough that I could grab most of it in my visual field at once. But then the eyes, again, began drifting and settling off to one side, or down into the left-hand corner.

With no audience reaction to tell me different, I continued to assume that I was seeing the whole thing. (As a result, I've been convinced that half the movies I've watched recently were boring avant-garde jobs, probably from Scandinavia. Those subtle, atmospheric films where all the action takes place offscreen.)

Worse than that, in even more recent days, my eyes have taken to drifting off the screen entirely, to focus on something that's near the tv-like the table lamp, or one of my stacks of Godzilla tapes. That lamp has been standing in exactly the same place next to the television for 12 years now. I recognize it. I know every wrinkle and crack in the shade. Those Godzilla stacks have been there for the last 18 months or so-and if I stopped to think about it, you'd think I'd recognize them, too. But no-I sit there staring at what I believe is the television screen, thinking "Wow-there's a lamp that looks just like mine!" or "Jesus, why does Cagney have a stack of Godzilla movies? And why are they in color?"

It simply doesn't occur to me that I'm completely off the screen, and that no matter how long I stare at that lamp, nothing is going to happen. I'll just keep trying to match up what I'm hearing on the soundtrack to that lamp. Only if my head moves while standing to go to the bathroom or get another beer will I notice what's been happening. It's very frustrating.

Several years ago I mentioned in a column that one night I'd accidentally shoved my hand blindly into a box of knives while reaching for the aspirin. In response, a reader wrote a letter to the editor, asking why I would do such a thing. "Is he," the curious reader asked, "just an idiot?" The only possible response, both then and now, is yes. Yes, I am an idiot. Case in point:

I think perhaps the first instance of something like this movie/tv screen trouble-more of a precursor, actually-took place seven or eight years ago. It was early evening, and Morgan and I were at what was at the time our home bar. I was staring at the television screen. It was a dark bar, and whenever I'm in a dark bar my eyes are automatically drawn to the brightest light they can find. This could be a light bulb, an exit sign, a window-but it's usually the television screen.

A baseball game was on, but the sound was off.

Actually, I shouldn't say it was a baseball game-it was a baseball field. An empty baseball field. Given that the sound was off, it was unclear if it was a rain delay or if the game simply hadn't started yet. What was weird is that the camera remained static. There were no shots of the crowd, the players, or even the commentators. It was just the field.

I'm no baseball fan, but I watched that empty field for a long time while we drank and talked. I was waiting for something to happen, anything at all, but nothing ever did. Eventually I got frustrated and looked away.

We were at the bar again the following night, and I couldn't help but notice that the same thing was on the tv: an empty baseball field. "Jesus Christ," I thought, "how long can these rain delays go on?" A long time it seems. And three or four hours later as we were getting set to head out, I took another glance at the screen. Still nothing.

On the third night (I know this sounds like an old joke, but it's not), we met up at the bar again, took the same seats we always did and once more the same damned empty baseball field was on the television screen. I finally turned to Morgan (which I should have done two days earlier) and said, "This is nuts. For the past three days we've been sitting here, there's been nothing on the tv but an empty baseball field."

There was a moment of confused silence before she pointed out that the bar didn't have a tv.

"What have you been watching?" she asked, and I pointed to the screen where the empty field was still empty.

That's when Morgan informed me that for the past three nights, I'd been staring at a green triangular lampshade.